


Love’s Place in This, My Life Story So Far

by KSForever



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Disability written about by a Disabled person, Emotions, Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, Family, Injury topics, Inspired by Various People’s Prompts for me on Mystrade Is Our Division, M/M, Men Crying, Men being a bit Domesticated, Mentions Eurus, Mentions Grief and Trauma, Mentions James Sholto, Mentions Mike Stamford, Mentions Mummy and Daddy Holmes, Mentions Mycroft getting heavily injured in the line of duty, Mentions Victor, Mentions going through grief when you are a child, Mentions grieving for a child, Molly is on the lgbtq scale too!, Surviving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KSForever/pseuds/KSForever
Summary: Mycroft is badly injured twice, within five weeks. He has to rely on Greg, John, and Sherlock, to rally around him.Heavy on whump and hard realities, but the story is all about Love.As of 6.6.20, I have added a few lines, to deal with moments I was reminded of when watching His Last Vow; the episode that deals with Magnussen.
Relationships: Greg/Mycroft, John/Sherlock, Mycroft/Greg, Mystrade and JohnLock, Sherlock/John - Relationship
Kudos: 42





	Love’s Place in This, My Life Story So Far

Love’s Place In This, My Life Story So Far

The first incident had been in the closing scenes of the case that involved one awful moment that Greg had, no choice, no time to do anything, but witness: there had been a stand-off in the street between the perpetrator of the crimes against people Mycroft called colleagues and Mycroft himself - along with Sherlock and John. 

Greg had watched with his own colleagues behind a barrier, where the marksmen and the hostage negotiators had firmly told Greg he must stay, or he would be risking the life of Mycroft and the others.

Greg watched as Mycroft stepped in front of his colleagues and the gunman fired a shot at him.

Controlled pandemonium seem to break loose and then the man who shot Mycroft was in police custody; while Mycroft was lying on the floor surrounded by his own blood.

Greg was by his side in a split second as were Sherlock and John.

“The blood is coming from his left arm alone.” John had said at one point.

Mycroft had been spent over a week in hospital having the bullet removed and blood transfusions, antibiotics, pain meds, the start of physio sessions; all of that.

The terrorist response division, whatever you wanted to call them, be they a team or department; had taken on the case.

Greg wanted to get whoever had been involved in hurting Mycroft and his colleagues but largely he was glad to say ‘not our division’, and to sit by Mycroft’s bedside; Anthea had made sure the hospital allowed him to do so pretty much around the clock.

Sherlock was there, often enough, and John, but Sherlock was also shockingly helping Sally Donovan and Greg’s team solve another unrelated case to Mycroft’s.

————

The second incident had been in foreign climes five weeks after Mycroft had been discharged from the hospital.

He had flown out with Anthea and a few others to some peace talks. The conference was bombed.

Mycroft and Anthea survived, but both had shrapnel wounds: hers weren’t as severe as Mycroft’s; Anthea had told Greg via video link that that was because Mycroft had tried to shield her when they realised what was about to happen.

”I’m arranging for you and Sherlock to fly out here to be with Mycroft. John, too; he stabilises Sherlock.” Anthea noted. She’d added: Mycroft is stable; he’s unconscious; most of the shrapnel hit his legs, but the surgeons have saved them.”

So that was that. Greg was out there for weeks with Mycroft before Mycroft was flying home to spend more time in a UK government facility hospital.

The case, it had been determined, was that the bomb had been aimed at another group of delegates. This had been checked double checked, and triple checked, by everyone even Mycroft, from his hospital bed.

Mycroft and Anthea had been in the hallway near the door to the room where the bomb had been.

So, Mycroft’s encounter with a bullet hadn’t exactly been meant for him he was simply trying to make sure a case that involved his colleagues were sold and then of course he’s made himself a target.

He’s encounter with a bomb just over a month later was also not directed at him.

—-

This did not mean that Mycroft and those around him were not even more concerned for his security and safety.

“Enemies can do that to you.” Mycroft said when he first left the hospital facility in the UK and employed a medical staff in a place set up as home. “In my case, my sister can execute the perfect set up to execute me. Okay, so I know that she’s secure, medicated, behind bars, et cetera; i.e. not on the rampage, but do I really know that? Am I missing something? I don’t think so, but yet, I wonder; I calculate; as, I know, does my brother. Yet, our sister can outplay us both: this, I do know.”

Greg was sitting in the conservatory of the place that was for now they’re home with Mycroft as he said this; he said beside him holding his hand.

“When I told my parents that Eurus had died in a second fire it was wishful thinking, at best - though, I shouldn’t say this aloud if I truly believe that she’s been a part of all this.” Mycroft completed his trail of thought.

“My, sweetheart,” Greg began, “everybody has been looking down every avenue that you, Sherlock, a dozen other experts, investigators, and more, can even conceive of.”

“I repeat.” Mycroft noted. “She can outplay us all; of what can she conceive?”

“Every investigator, money trail, loose end, perpetrator, has been found and turned inside out: they were two separate incidents, two separate reasons, causes, funds; none of it was meant to involve you.” Greg reiterated.

“And, yes, I was there for both unfortunate events.” Mycroft replied. “Even if it was all just luck, one way or the other, it’s affected my life, my usefulness, made me even more of a target, in some respects. I’m a weaker link in the chain than ever I was.” He paused. “For a whole host of dark, shadowy reasons; some personal, some not: I cannot afford to become not useful to Queen and Country.” Mycroft looked to Greg, “And then, there’s you. I worry more than ever for you, your safety. We had this discussion after I got shot, and just days before Anthea and I managed to avoid the main impact of the bomb in that room.”

“I remember.” Greg sighed. “I remember our anger, our fear, and our passion. I remembered it both times that you were in a hospital bed. Through every moment, I cared and still do care, about nothing more than you. I’m not leaving you. Believe it or not, you still make me happy and I am still in love with you.” Greg moved his chair closer to Mycroft’s, brushed his forearm and kiss the side of his neck.

“I care about nothing more than you, Greg; that’s why I still fear that you should leave.” Mycroft repeated.

“I’m not going to: end of discussion.” Greg said certainly.

“Despite, and partly because of, the security personnel on my team, inside and out of this place, I feel as though I’m the goldfish in the bowl now especially in this glass building.” Mycroft looked around the conservatory.

“We can go inside. We can go to our room; you can finish your paperwork in there, can’t you?” Greg checked.

“Yes.” Mycroft answered. He stacked the file of paperwork and stuck it under his jumper, next to his chest. Things had an infuriating habit of falling off his lap when he was having to use the wheelchair.

“You’ve done enough physio and shows of independence for today: let me will you through to our room.” Greg put his hand up Mycroft’s jumper, and let his fingertips touch Mycroft’s skin, before his fingers curled around the file, and retrieved it from underneath Mycroft’s clothing, placing it on his lap. They smiled at each other and set on their way.

In the hallway, John approached them. He was head of Mycroft’s med team; Mycroft had chosen them all himself. “Your next round of Meds.” He handed them to Mycroft. “Do you two want to have dinner with Sherlock and me tonight?” Sherlock had, more often than not, taken up residence here in his brother’s new home. He was still doing some detective work; he and everyone around him, would go mad, if he were not, but he spent a lot of time here working on his music and various scientific experiments.

John and Sherlock both went back to 221B now and then, to check on Mrs. Hudson, and meet any of Sherlock’s clients there. Mrs. Hudson had been cleared to come to this new home, too, and had done so. Mycroft had even been in the same room as her, on occasion.

Rosie, when John and Sherlock were away, was being looked after/living with Molly and Harry; Harry having been sober for three years now, was back in John‘s life: that was how she and Molly met. They started a relationship together eight months ago. John still worried about his sister Harry, but she was definitely ‘on the wagon’, and he knew that Molly was more than capable of being responsible for Rosie. He spoke to Rosie, Harry, and Molly, every day, twice a day, via FaceTime - and, even when he couldn’t get home for a while; He would take a few hours to meet up with them somewhere nice, and spend some quality time with his daughter, sister, and almost sister-in-law.

John’s trusted army colleagues, Mike Stamford and James Sholto, were also on Mycroft’s medical team, and so, John could step away to be with the other half of his family when he needed to, and when they needed him.

“Has my brother eaten at all today?” Mycroft asked John.

“You noticed.” John noted. “Apparently, the pursuit of science has been much more important today, than eating; that’s why I am determined to try and make a meal he will really like.”

“I can hear you talking about me, you know.” Sherlock suddenly announced from the room Mycroft had had set aside for his brother’s scientific explanations.

“”And, what would be the tactical benefit in informing us of this?” Mycroft asked after him.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway. “Lestrade, did you make any extra meringues, yesterday?”

“They’re in the freezer, mate.” Greg answered him. “They can be got ready for dinner tonight.”

“Getting quite domesticated, aren’t we?” Sherlock continued the conversation.

“If it makes us feel better, tomorrow, I can ask Anthea to bring takeaway for us all, when she’s here to discuss the work with me.” Mycroft noted.

“But, for tonight, that mushroom spaghetti dish John knows I like, and Lestrade’s Pavlovas?” Sherlock already knew he was right. 

“They are my grandfather’s recipe.” Greg noted. “He owned a patisserie in France before retiring to the UK.” Greg turned to John. “Get them out of the freezer and call me about half an hour before you dish up the spaghetti. I’ll have enough time to get them ready then.”

“Will do.” John grinned.

———

Back in his and Mycroft’s bedroom, sometime after the dinner discussion with John; Greg was helping a partially dressed Mycroft, walk back from the en suite to the bed. He’d insisted on walking out of there, though he used the wheelchair on the way in, and a shower chair with wheels, to move from the loo on to having a shower.

Mycroft Hated the way his body was now; not that he was ever that keen on it in the first place. It was now all about scars. It was all about skin grafts. About losing control of his bodily functions, sometimes through the fear in a nightmare, sometimes because his body was too weak to cope with its own demands. It could even be about the opposite; his body stubbornly refusing to let some function or other happen as it needed to. It was about not knowing whether the next operation would better his quality of life, or bring yet something else he would have to deal with for the rest of his life. As Mycroft Holmes slowly moved from the en suite into the bedroom, his legs threatened to buckle. He was leaning heavily on one of his walking canes on one side, Greg’s strength on the other. “Sorry.” he noted.

Greg held Mycroft up. “Is it okay if I lift you? He ventured carefully.

“I wish that that could still be a romantic gesture.” Mycroft said wearily.

“It’s still romantic, My. I love you, remember?” Greg promised and reminded Mycroft Holmes.

“Go on then.” Mycroft gave Greg the go-ahead.

Greg lifted Mycroft and carried him the rest of the way to the bed, leaving his walking cane temporarily on the floor. Greg placed Mycroft on the towels that were already on the bed, and gently dried Mycroft’s legs, more so, after the shower he’d just had.

“Showering together isn’t exactly the same as once it was, either, is it?” Mycroft said tiredly.

A lot of the time moments like this personal-care moments of any kind but especially those where he needed help cleaning up, Mycroft remained silent - off in his own version of a mind palace. So, Greg was at least happy that Mycroft spoke through it, this time, right here and now. Greg bent down and kissed one of Mycroft’s knees. “We are building all that back up again, you know that.”

Mycroft tried to smile. “Continence pads, catheters, bags, scars, almost constant flaccidity, operation sites, dressings on supposedly healing wounds and relocated skin leaving and covering gaps; all of that be damned, eh?”

“Not all of that is going to be forever - you know that some of it was, and still is, just to help you over the various stages of healing; and, even if it does have to stay, we’ve had this chat: there are ways to get our life back; you are still my consummate ginger gentleman.” Greg promised, meaning what he’d said.

“Consumed by all this, maybe.” Mycroft sighed.

“Can I lay down on the bed with you, next to you, for a minute?“ Greg asked.

Mycroft tugged a nearby towel further over his body, but held out his arms, or one of them, to Greg.

Greg crawled onto the bed, and lay himself on his side, carefully next to Mycroft, who was laying on his back. Greg was cautious not to knock the scarred tissue down the side of Mycroft’s nearest leg. He rested his head on the inside of Mycroft’s uninjured (from the bullet wound incident) arm.

“I’m so sorry, Gregory.” Mycroft began to speak. “After everything my body is asking of you lately, it should be able to give you more in return.“ He paused quickly. “This must be so difficult on you, especially with how your ex wife put you through so much rejection.”

“It’s not the same thing at all, Myc. She cold-shouldered me entirely; made me realise her affections were probably never genuine - It made me feel guilty; It made me feel unloved and unlovable. But you, I know that you’re being utterly genuine when you tell me that you liked me for years, before we even got together, and that you still absolutely fancy me; and, you do still want me now. It’s not difficult for me to wait for you and your body to be ready; it’s only difficult in that I see the anguish it causes you.” Greg looked in to Mycroft’s eyes.

“I love our love life, or I did. I am scared of how it might have to be now. You opened up a world of me feeling okay about being human enough to have sexual desires. You opened up a world where I became so much more confident in love and physicality.” Mycroft tried to refuse to cry. “Now, look!” His eyes moved over his own body. “Now what? What do we do? Will it be enough for either of us?“

Greg’s fingers ‘tiptoed’ where they could, over Mycroft’s skin, and he slowly, deliberately, carefully kissed Mycroft’s lips, moving around his prone body with the utmost care. “We’ll sort it out.” He whispered. “I love you for ever, and I know you love me. “

Mycroft reached up, and touched Greg’s face.  
“Yes. I do. I know you won’t let this relationship end, but it’s unfair of me to keep you here all the time. “

“I’m not here all the time. I visit my sister for a few hours, most weekends. I get called into work by Sally and the team, now and then.” Greg noted.

“I should let you get back to work properly. I don’t want you to feel useless or forgotten or whatever else you might be feeling, having been taken away from your usual life.” Mycroft explained.

Greg knew that Mycroft was identifying himself with a lot of what he didn’t want Greg to have to go through. “I’m genuinely not sure I want to go back to the Met in the same capacity as before.” Greg sat up, got up, and reached for Mycroft’s clothes, to help him dress. “My sister says my metalwork gifts I made for you, were good enough for me to join her handmade gifts from home business - or, to start my own. She also said that my patisserie-bakery skills, mean that she could offer her customers a line of edible gifts to buy.”

“Your gifts are beautiful enough. I’ll wear them at dinner tonight, by the way. “ Mycroft spoke of the umbrella cufflinks, tie-pin, and the Boutonnière, that Greg had made him. “I also think that I am qualified enough to sing the high praises of your skills as a patisserie chef!“

“You, sing?! “Greg teased him, as he finished helping Mycroft put on his trousers, and began helping him to sit up and around, ready to tackle his shirt.

“Possibly!” Mycroft smiled.

“They also mentioned, at work to me, last week, about a new consultancy position/job title that I might want, and, even your brother said something about me working with him and John. That was a shock! He tells everyone who isn’t John that they get in the way of his work. So, I don’t know if he truly meant his offer. “ Greg wondered.

“He has mentioned it to me.” Mycroft confided. “He is being genuine.”

“The thing is, would it be an alternative to the Met consultancy job title, or in conjunction with it? “Greg pondered.

“What ever you’d prefer, I’m sure both sides can be talked to, about the possibilities.” Mycroft said assuredly.

Greg grinned at him, glad to see some of the old confidence in his beloved man. “And, if I decide to give the metalwork and/or the baking and patisserie thing a go?”

“That’s more than fine by me and my grateful stomach.” Mycroft told Greg.

They laughed together.

———

Mycroft arrived at the dining room in his wheelchair, but had his umbrella with him, and used it like he did his walking canes, when he had one, or both, of these with him, instead.

Greg helped him into a dining room chair at the table, and then, went into the kitchen, to get together the Pavlova vanilla cream, sweetened fruits, and syrup.

Sherlock wondered around the dining room, playing his violin.

Mycroft sat, thinking about the paperwork he’d finished signing in his and Greg’s room not long ago, and the fact that he was hoping that he would be comfortable enough however and where ever he sat, to not rush his meal, and his time with his family.

After the meal, Mycroft did not have an aperitif, on account of his being on medication. He didn’t make any comment, neither did Sherlock, about the fact that Sherlock had made him, and the others, a hot chocolate drink, complete with deliciously melting marshmallows. Though, Sherlock himself had brought the drinks in, on a tray, after spending several minutes in the kitchen with Greg, and announced. “They’re not loaded up with sleep inducing drugs, even if we could all use some. They don’t contain any other kind of drug either, for that matter. Graeme here can vouch for that!”

Greg threw him an exasperated look, even as he said. “I watched the every step of his hot chocolate making!” He smiled.

Mycroft smiled at him.

Sherlock stepped forward, after having placed the tray safely down ob the coffee table. He offered Mycroft a cup of the hot chocolate. “And, before you tell me off, Mycroft, you and I both know that I do realise his name is Greg, or Gregory...”

Mycroft simply took the drink from Sherlock very carefully, and briefly looked into his little brother’s eyes. His look was not reproaching of his little brother. A moment of unspoken and kind brotherly feelings dared to pass between them.

Gently, Greg sat down next to Mycroft, complete with a cup of his own of the hot chocolate. They sat together on one of the room’s two, two seater sofas.

John sat in the other, while Sherlock; after initially gravitating toward John, and checking, discreetly, to see if John liked the hot chocolate; then flitted, albeit quite slowly, between drinking his own hot chocolate, and playing his violin.

Eventually, Mycroft transferred back into sitting in his wheelchair, because it was marginally more comfortable, after a night of the dining room seating. Not long after that, when John had come back from loading the dishwasher in the main kitchen where the earlier meal had been prepared, Greg and Mycroft made their way back to their bedroom. Halfway there, he let Greg take over pushing the wheelchair again.

———

Later in the night, Greg was awoken for the second time by a voice; this time it was Mycroft’s, and he was having a nightmare. The sheets were wet with his sweat, but nothing ‘more than that’ tonight.

Mycroft opened his eyes, and stared up at Greg, who was leaning over him concernedly.

“Shall I put the light on for a bit, so that we can talk, or just sit here?” Greg asked My.

“Yes. “Mycroft answered.

Greg did so.

“Can you help me set up for a while ?” Mycroft asked Greg.

“Sure.“ Greg smiled, helping Mycroft gently. “I thought I heard Sherlock having a nightmare down the hall earlier as well.” He mentioned, as he tried to get Mycroft sitting as comfortably as was possible for him.

“He may well have done. We have a lot of the same things on our minds of late. Eurus, as is quite usually the case.” Mycroft went all in and admitted.

“Is it an anniversary? Did I forget something?” Greg asked.

“Soon after the first event, before Sherlock blocked it from his mind, Victor’s parents and family came for an entirely justified confrontation. There was so much shouting, so many more screams and tears. They were outside with our parents. The Musgrove fire had happened by then. We were elsewhere. Eurus was already incarcerated. She wasn’t with us. I locked myself and Sherlock in this room which was like a study or snug, whatever it was. Thank God, there was a phone in there.” Mycroft looked to Greg. “But I nearly didn’t use it. I was convinced our parents were going to be killed, and that we were, too. But, I nearly didn’t use that phone. Sherlock was crying; He was scared, yes, but he was mostly crying for his beloved friend, Victor, and, his own misplaced guilt about the boy’s death. I was convinced we were all going to be killed because of what our sister did, when she was only a very young child herself. Not for the first or last time, I wondered if she was just pure evil, not an actual child. I do realise that she is ill; that it’s her brain, but even I have considered if she could be possessed or born from evil. It’s awful to have those thoughts go across my mind. She is my sister and she is like she is, because of some chance in the way her brain works, or doesn’t work. Back, during the confrontation after Victor’s death, when Sherlock and I were in that room, and before I did call our Family Liaison Officer; I wondered about who had allowed what to happen in the situation that started it all: though Sherlock was blameless. And,” Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat, “in-spite of, or because of everything, I wondered if it would be better if we Holmes brothers and our parents did die this time. We were fully aware of the horror. We felt the guilt. We also felt useless and inadequate to make up for Eurus. We know we never can. My parents still do feel useless and inadequate, about Eurus, and, by extension, about Sherlock and I, then, and now. From that day, nothing has really changed. You’ve met our parents. You can see how they seem, and are, so often ‘away with the fairies.’”

“Yes.” Greg noted.

“I don’t want to feel useless and inadequate, Gregory.” Mycroft confided.

“You’re not. You’re stronger, braver, and more beautiful than ever.” Greg lay with Mycroft, holding his face, letting Mycroft’s tears flow over his fingers.

“I wish I could believe you.” Mycroft looked to Greg.

“You can. You know you can.” Greg promised him.

“I think Sherlock does still believe in, or hope for, an afterlife; where he might see Victor again, and say sorry for all of us. I know he hopes that Victor will be glad to see him, and still love him. They were only children, but they were soulmates of a sort, those two; it completely broke him, when what happened, happened. It broke us all, apart from her, the one of us who was already broken.”

“You’re not broken, like she is. Your emotions are normal, My. You never have been broken like your sister, and, you’re still not. You can express your emotions, I promise you, Love. Sherlock’s learning to express his emotions again, too, isn’t he?” Greg held Mycroft.

——

Down the hall, in John and Sherlock’s room, John still had his arms gently around Sherlock, who was curled in toward him.

Quietly, Sherlock admitted. “I do, sometimes, wonder you know, if Victor guided us two together. Wishful thinking, I understand that much. He’d be well within his rights to still hate me. I couldn’t save him. And then, I simply forgot him.” 

“It wasn’t so simple though, was it? Besides, that’s survivor’s guilt, Sherlock. You know that. We are both more than acquainted with it. We know we both felt it when Mary died, and you know, dear God, how much a miracle happened for me, because I felt guilt so much when I thought you were gone.” John tried not to let his voice shake as he recalled thinking that Sherlock had died, because he was, here and now, meant to be being entirely strong for Sherlock, who had never spoken so openly before, even to him.

“The earpiece, John. I was meant to be able to tell you. Mycroft wanted to tell you, but his worry for my safety meant that he couldn’t risk it.” Sherlock recollected. “He is sorry, and so am I.“

“Shush, my love. I didn’t mean to upset you further. I’m just saying that I’m so glad I got my soulmate back. “John kissed Sherlock. “And, Victor does not hate you. No way - Because you weren’t to blame, and you two were amazing best friends.” John assured Sherlock.

“It isn’t like I think I’m picking up with you where I left off with Victor. He and I were children, with only children’s minds, and concerns. Even if I was already giftedly smart back then, I only thought about things as a child. I used to think that if I spent the rest of my life being his friend, if life could just, somehow, unfold with both of us always being there for each other- You see, there was nothing I loved more than spending time with him, my best friend, and if he was happy, I was happy- That I couldn’t think of anything else I would ever really need; what ever life was going to be for me as I grew up, as long as he and I were best friends. Truth is, he probably would have gotten fed up with me. I was always clingy and a little bit OCD. It’s the way I’ve always been. But anyway, I never got a chance to find out what it would have been to have him as a present, lifelong friend. The fact that my friendship with Victor meant so much to me even when I was a little boy, was exactly what my sister reacted against. She wanted all of my attention; she wanted all of everybody’s attention; but, she seemed fixated on me a lot of the time. What if being obsessed with people we love is something that my sister and I have in common? That, and the fact that we’ve both killed people.” Sherlock shivered, as he spoke of Magnussen. 

“I’m a soldier. I’ve killed people, too. We, you and I, both did so to protect our unit, and keep our country safe. As for Eurus, and whether your brain is similar to hers in any way; Your brain is so not like hers, Sherlock. You aren’t like Eurus.” John kissed Sherlock’s face.

“The fact that he was my treasured friend is what got Victor killed, by my own little sister. I’ve always felt guilty for making a friend of him. He died as a result of being my friend and my sister lost what little of an ordinary mind she had, because I cared for someone.” Sherlock said, painfully. “Then, there’s you. I do love you. I really, really do love you. Not because you’re like some kind of replacement adventure partner. Maybe, I should’ve always known when I was growing up that I was going to be gay when I reached my adulthood. But I didn’t. I didn’t know. Didn’t think about it. I just knew that gender didn’t really make a lot of difference, if ever I gave any thought to who I might go through my life with in the far-off future, and if Victor and I still spent loads of time together, that would be good. It might even be all I would ever want. I didn’t think about anything remotely grown up, like actually fancying someone, anyone, having a crush on them, but gender didn’t make much difference to whom I thought I might spend my life with; who I thought I might, one day, have living beside me. That was probably a clue. As an adult, I’ve tried not to think about the things that you think about as an adult. Hormonal concerns were, mostly, a bother. And, in those days without you, it was just biology. I had so many reasons to not let that side of myself and my body mean anything. Feelings, too. It was best to not admit to kindnesses like love, of any kind. I just thought about the work. The detecting, deducing side of my life.” Sherlock looked in to John’s eyes.

John caressed Sherlock. “I’m listening, Love, and it’s all okay.” He promised.

“Then, you turned up, and, slowly, I realised all that you mean to me. You gave me friendship, and you’ve always been a true friend. Victor was my soulmate when we were children.” Sherlock tried to explain. “You are my soulmate now, and having a soulmate when you’re an adult invariably includes a whole set of new feelings. So many more things to consider. Life changes so much when you’re an adult; Yet, something that happened to me from my childhood still follows me around. Psychology is such a nuisance half the time! My sister’s actions from so long ago still make me afraid to love. It’s a different kind of love I feel now to what I felt then, for my dear friend, obviously, it is - because I’m 30 odd years older than I was then. I’m in love now. I don’t say it to you, or mention it often, but I know I am. I know we’ve faced Eurus together, and I know how strong you are, but I hate the memories of being in my sister’s rat maze. I hat the memories of you being in it even more.”

“Nightmares are awful, Sherlock. We just have to keep on living life, being soulmates. If your childhood friend put us in each other’s paths, perhaps to help you heal because he wants to assure you that he doesn’t hate you, and he wants you to carry on living life bravely; if he somehow helped to make sure we met, so that you would have someone to go on adventures with again, and I would, too; then, I owe him so much gratitude. You’ve always known, I love my life with you.” John held Sherlock close.

“I’m sorry that Mary died, John. I didn’t want her to do what she did for me.” Sherlock said it again.

“I know, and it isn’t your fault. Yes, maybe she did realise that I’d go off the rails if I lost you again, but Mary had her own problems. Her own secrets; people out to hurt her as well. Maybe, she didn’t know she’d be mortally wounded. Maybe, she did, but she saw it as her chance to stop running and to give her daughter a chance at a normal life. Maybe, she just wanted to protect all of us.” John fathomed. “I think, on some level, she might have still felt guilty about what could have gone wrong when she shot you. Stepping in front of you might have re-addressed tgat balance for her. That, and we both know that she was one of the people you were protecting when you took Magnussen out of the picture.”

“She owed me nothing.” Sherlock looked up from where he lay next to John, a bit further down the bed than John himself. “I don’t belittle what I did to Magnussen. I know what it makes me, but I won’t fail you, John. I won’t fail you and Rosie. They promise me that Eurus is back under medicated, locked-down control now. But, if anything ever happens again, with her, or with someone else in our work, I will not fail you.” Sherlock swore.

“It’s alright, Sherlock.” John held Sherlock to him, and ran his finger’s through the man’s curly hair. He fervently hoped, and, perhaps, even prayed, that Sherlock wouldn’t be faced with that kind of decision again. Choosing to focus on the fact that Sherlock had mentioned Eurus, John tried to assure Sherlock. “Your sister is safer now.” John prayed he was right; or, that he could keep his family safe from her, if he had to, but that he wouldn’t have to, and that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft would feel they had to face her again in an adversarial way. “She’s being better looked after and watched over, managed differently. We’ll be alright. I love you.” John promised Sherlock. “Of course, we both have to always keep Rosie safe, but, please, Sherlock; You and your family have suffered enough. Don’t go off trying to be the hero, again. We’ll be safe. We’ll all be alright.”

———

Greg had helped Mycroft sit in the armchair as he changed the sweat-ridden bedsheet and pillowcase; then, he’d fetched the wheelchair from the bathroom, taken Mycroft in to the bathroom, and afterward, had taken the chance to relieve himself. 

Now, Greg helped Mycroft lay back down in bed, and they kissed yet again. “I love you. You’re still the amazing Alexander Mycroft Holmes I fell in love with, had done probably before you even asked me out on a date, in the weeks after Sherlock’s Return. You and me, the love we found in each other when you felt you could talk to me at last, that love won’t die. I love you, darlin’, My, and I always have, and still do, love my life with you.”

“I love you, and my life with you, Gregory – in-spite of all of this.” Mycroft gestured to his body again.

“It will get better, Myc, sweetheart. We’ll work things out together.” Greg promised him, holding his hands, and kissing his lips and forehead.

The End..? 

Written mainly between 20th-24tg April 2020. Voice-typing dictated, and added to/corrected for typos, on 25th/26th/27th/28th April 2020

Then, added to again, on 6.6.20


End file.
